


Catharsis

by Clufa



Category: Elementary (TV), Miss Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Gen, Partial Nudity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25524334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clufa/pseuds/Clufa
Summary: Three strangers on vacation/holiday in search of beer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gardnerhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/gifts).



> On the occasion of the 10th anniversary of BBC Sherlock's first episode, I think it's a good time to release this into the wild.

Joan Watson, former surgeon, former sober companion, and current private consulting detective stepped out of San Diego International Airport into a surprisingly hot late fall afternoon. Even though Sherlock had warned her about California's infamous Santa Anas, she hadn't really believed it. She felt the moisture get pulled right out of her skin, and glanced up at the offending bright orb hanging in a wan blue sky. She waited at the curb for her hotel shuttle with little patience, eager to finally relax. This was her first real vacation in... she couldn't remember the last time she'd been on a real vacation. Years ago, it must have been. She sighed in relief when she pulled her luggage into the brightly painted hotel shuttle bus, it was air conditioned. She sat down near the front and asked the driver, “Where can I get a decent beer around here?” 

The driver, a middle aged man of indeterminate ethnicity, graying short hair, and slightly saggy paunch, glanced at her in the rear view mirror. She could see from his ID on the dash that his name was Andrew Ramirez, “You want fast, or good, ma'am?” he asked.

Joan thought a moment, fast would be less than what she really wanted. But it would be wet, and cold, and probably taste like piss water. Her better angels won out in the end, “Good.” She said firmly.

“Ah, you might want one of the beer tours then, ask at the concierge desk, they'll help you out.” He grinned, “I like Ballast Point, myself, though the Green Flash Brewery's pretty good, too. Alpine Brewing Co., Carl Strauss... Eh, there's good beer all over the county. So you're pretty much in luck no matter where you go.”

“Thanks.” she slumped back in the seat, glanced over at the harbor, watched idly as the boats bobbed in the dazzling water. The strange arch of the Coronado Bay Bridge caught her eye, as did the Navy ships at anchor on Coronado Island. She smirked a bit, the one thing New York and San Diego had in common was the fact that they were port cities. 

When she got to her hotel, as she waited on line to check in she looked around instinctively. There was a white man with dirty blondish hair wearing a green sweater, brown pants, and he was sweating. He clearly didn't check the weather before he left... hmm, Ireland? England? Scotland? Wales seemed like a long shot. Without hearing him talk it was hard to tell. He had his luggage in one hand, and some clothing store shopping bags in the other. Ah, he hadn't brought the right clothes along either, whoops.

She also noticed a slight Asian woman in ecru capris, and a baggy pale blue top, almost the antithesis of what Joan was wearing (tailored white blouse, black and white abstract patterned skirt, black shoes, matching purse). The woman looked slightly sloppy. From her attitude, and cut of the clothes, Joan guessed that she was probably from Japan. For a brief moment, she envied the woman, whatever else you could say about her, she looked comfortable. In New York clothes were armor, and staying somewhat current with fashion trends was survival. But, on reflection, if this woman was from Tokyo, or another major metropolis, she probably would catch sheer hell from her friends and family about her choice of dress.

When Joan got to the counter, she took her key, headed off the bellman, went straight to her room, and showered, rinsing off the travel funk from the flight.

John Watson, surgeon, and friend? to Sherlock Holmes, stood the queue at the hotel Sherlock had recommended in San Diego. How in the hell he knew this place would be right up his alley was a mystery when neither of them had ever been to California. The arrogant prick had been right, though. Worse, before he left his shared London flat at 221b Baker St. Sherlock had said, “You'll be wanting to get some clothes in San Diego.” and pressed cash into his hand, US dollars, a lot of them. Just then John's cab arrived, and Sherlock slammed the door before he could angrily throw the money back in his face. He didn't have time to argue with a driver waiting. Grumpily, he stuffed the bills in his pocket, climbed into the cab, and headed for Gatwick, looking forward to leaving dreary late fall London for sunny California skies.

One ocean, one continent, two flights, and crossing many, many time zones left him feeling grimy, restless, and tired. Worse, when he'd stepped out of the air conditioned confines of both airplane, and airport, the late afternoon heat and dryness hit him like the hard wallop of a cricket bat. He immediately regretted his choice to wear his green jumper, and wool trousers.

But he had the sense to stop, and do a little shopping for more weather appropriate clothes at the most baffling shopping mall he'd ever seen. “Horton Plaza” it was called. One could call it Stackapoluza, or The M. C. Escher Retail Center, and either one would be more accurate. Lifts, ramps, and escalators seemed to go every which way without much rhyme or reason that he could see. But after quite a few times getting turned around, he finally obtained some lighter clothes, and a pair of screamingly green and purple trainers that struck his fancy. He was in California after all, and it was Sherlock's money, so why not? 

Only then did he go to his hotel, and check in. He stood in the queue with two Asian women, one clearly an American by her dress, and stance. For the life of him, he couldn't guess which part she hailed from. But where ever it was, she was a smart dresser, from her discrete black heels, to the black and white skirt, to her white button down blouse, and purse matched to her shoes, she was very well turned out. She also had long hair in a very flattering cut. The other stood in sharp contrast, she was slight, had bangs that hung in her face in a way that made him want to reach over and brush them out of her eyes. Just looking at them made his eyes itch. She didn't seem to mind it though, she was carelessly dressed in some light cream kind of capris, and a pale blue blouse that hung on her loosely. She looked comfortably dressed for a long flight. This woman struck him as being from somewhere in Asia. He just wasn't sure where. He could hear Sherlock sneering in his mind's ear that it was quite simple to figure out where these women were from if he only paid attention.

He turned his attention to the desk clerk when his turn came, and gratefully took his room key. By the time he reached his room he was convinced that he wasn't the only one who could smell him, and took a shower. After all the flights, and the time spent at that nonsensical shopping mall, God, he wanted a good beer.

Tachibana Wato stood basking in the heat of a San Diego sun. She reveled in the fact that it wasn't humid. After going home to Tokyo, the one thing she missed from being in Syria was dryness. She was looking forward to this trip, no one was in dire need of her skills here, and she needed a break from everyone back home. She'd chosen San Diego because it was, surprisingly, one of the great beer destinations in America, and she fully intended to take advantage of it. She was tired, but excited, eager to find out what lay in store in this beer heaven of a city. 

After Mr. Fubata insisted that she move in with his sister, “Miss Sherlock,” the woman who had turned her life completely upside down, Wato found herself living under the same roof as the most crazy making woman she had ever met. The day they met, she berated Wato about her clothes, then handed her a blood soaked coat to wear. Wato had recoiled, her mind screaming “Who does that?!” The woman was also shockingly rude and always acted like she was the smartest person in the room. Wato grudgingly gave her that, she did seem to be the smartest one in the room. But Wato was no idiot either. She was a trained physician, even if she didn't have her heart in the job anymore.

After catching an Uber to the hotel, she stood in line along with two other guests, a sweaty white man with dirty blonde hair carrying both luggage and shopping bags, and a Chinese woman dressed in a very nice American styled outfit, everything either matched or complemented it, even the rolling luggage she had with her. Chinese American maybe? She thought “I bet Sherlock wouldn't give her shit about how she dressed.” And caught her own refection in the polished granite behind the hotel counter, she'd win no prizes for being in fashion, but this was the most comfortable outfit for flying long distances.

Once she got into her room, she went straight to the bathroom, comfortable clothes or not, it'd been a long day flying, and she wanted a shower.

Joan skipped blow drying her hair, with the low humidity it'd just fly all over anyway, so she just put a hair tie on and let it hang in a damp ponytail. She grabbed jeans out of her suitcase, and put on her “Let the Wookie Win” Mets tee shirt. For grins she bought a pair of bright green and purple sneakers before she left New York and brought them on the trip. Laughing to herself she put them on. There was nothing quite like putting on new sneakers, a good pair made you feel like you were walking on clouds. She looked in the hotel mirror. Ponytail, jeans, silly baseball shirt, and the green and purple sneakers, she looked like a dork. Back in New York she wouldn't dream of stepping out the door looking like this, except maybe to go to a ballgame, but this was California, no one knew her from a hole in the wall. And, what the hell, she was on vacation. Her stomach growled. She grabbed her purse and room key, and headed down to the lobby. Food, and the quest for a good beer were calling her name.

Hair still damp, John ran the electric razor over his face and neck, glad of the power converter he'd bought before leaving the UK. A pair of khaki shorts and a light blue cubana shirt beckoned, promising to be a lot cooler than the clothes he arrived in. After he put those on he put on black socks, and the eye catching green and purple trainers. If he was going to be a tourist here, he was going to own it to the hilt, right down to his fish belly white legs. Let the locals laugh, at least he'd be cool. He shoved his room key in his front pocket. Now for that beer...

Wato toweled off, and gave her hair one last squeeze to get the moisture out. She ran a comb through it, and decided that was good enough. She probably needed a haircut, but couldn't be bothered before she left home. Every spare yen she had she'd put aside for this trip so, haircuts could wait. She rummaged through her suitcase and pulled out some ankle length plain beige pants, and found another loose top, this one yellow. She slid into the neon green and purple sneakers she'd bought over Sherlock's objections. She stuffed the San Diego tour book and her room key in her purse, then went to find adventure in this unlikely beer destination city, starting at the concierge desk. 

Three strangers converged in the lobby, one New Yorker, one British tourist, and one comfortably dressed woman from Japan, all wanting one thing, the Holy Grail of San Diego beerdom. Wato reached the concierge desk first, followed closely by John, and Joan. “Please, I would like to find the best beer. What would you recommend?” Wato asked the pleasant looking African American woman manning the desk. Hot on her heels, Joan spoke up, “So would I, and food to go with it.” Joan looked at the woman's name tag, “If you please, Diane.” Wato looked at Joan, and being reminded of food, her stomach rumbled, she turned back to Diane, “Oh, yes, food too, please. Thank you.” It never occurred to her to address the concierge by name. John looked at the two women talking to the clerk. Beer, pub grub, and company, well, this could be fun. “That sounds brilliant, me too.” He smiled at all of them.

The woman at the desk donned a professional smile, and said, “You three are in luck, there's a beer bus coming for the evening run. Tonight it'll be going to the Mission Sunset Brewery and Grill, it's Zagats recommended. I think you'll all enjoy it. Please follow me, I'll show you where the bus departs from.” She stepped out from behind the desk, beckoning them on. “This way, please.” She noticed that these three had on matching sneakers. They didn't seem to be a group, but whatever. Internally she shrugged. At least these three had been polite, for a change. But still, Tourists. 

Once she had them at the curb with other guests also waiting, she went back to her desk. In the course of dealing with the next guests and their needs, she didn't give it another thought.

Once they boarded the bus, Joan, John, and Wato found themselves sitting together, Joan decided to speak to these people she'd bumped into twice already today, might as well get to know them. She stuck out her hand to the man, “Hi, I'm Joan.”

John had been debating on how to talk to these women now that he'd invited himself along. He felt a little awkward. Well, Miss Mets Wookie just made that a whole lot easier. He took her hand and shook it. “I'm John.” he replied.

“Pleased to meet you.” Joan then turned to the woman, “Hi, I'm Joan.” and smiled, proffering her hand. 

Wato was a little taken aback, this woman was definitely American. Then she noticed the Mets shirt, “I am Wato.” and awkwardly shook hands with Joan. She grinned, “I see you like baseball, too. Are you from New York? I like the Yomiuri Giants.” 

Joan grinned back, “Yep, I'm from New York and I'm a Mets girl all the way.” She turned to John, “I don't suppose you like baseball?” 

John shook his head, “Don't know a damn thing about baseball, but I love Star Wars.” He started to relax a bit, and found himself grinning too. She was from New York, of course, her arrival outfit should have been a dead giveaway. He mentally slapped his forehead. He quickly googled “Yomiuri Giants,” on his phone. Ah, Japan. Take that, Sherlock! And promptly thought that he probably not only knew this baseball team, he could probably quote all the relevant statistics, the bastard.

Wato spoke up, “I, too, love Star Wars.” She imitated Wookie noises. They all laughed, and started making Wookie noises together. Wato decided to hang around with these two once they got to their destination. She hoped they'd all stay in touch later.

Joan was pleased, this was a good decision.

After a short walk through a beach front parking lot loomed over by a large wooden roller coaster (Giant Dipper, the sign on it proclaimed), along with their fellow bus riders, they entered the Mission Sunset Brewery and Grill. It fronted on the roller coaster side, but once inside the beach and ocean could be easily seen through the bay windows on the long wall of the restaurant and brewery. Pictures of "Belmont Park" and the roller coaster's earlier incarnations adorned the walls not dominated by windows, over all it had a feel somewhere between cozy bar, and raucous tourist destination. The dark woods making up the tables, shelves, and bar lent themselves to the warmth of the scene. There was a patio space outside of the windows with umbrella-ed tables and at this time of year, portable outdoor heaters. 

They went to the greeter's station, were seated in time, and given two menus, one for food, and one for their beers. Joan glanced over the food menu, the fare was very local, a combination of specialty burgers, Mexican food, and deep fried zucchini. She decided on the avocado ranch bacon burger with fried zucchini, then turned her attention to the beer menu. She picked out a flight of Irish and American red beers, an IPA, and a couple of stouts. 

John stared at the food menu. Appetizers included stuffed potato skins, soups, and salads. Under main dishes were burgers, and Mexican food he knew he would laughably mispronounce. But it all looked so, so, American, for lack of a better term. He chose the carne asada plate, it included flavoured rice, guacamole, and something called refried beans. He had no idea what re-frying did to beans, but he would try it. The house specialty beer was called “Mission Sunset,” (an American red). Not his usual, but, when in Rome...

Wato was in heaven, she stared at the beer menu happily. So many to choose from. Like Joan, she chose a flight of beers. Hers included one with a citrus blend, a wheat beer, the “Sunset Red,” and several lagers. Then she took up the food menu. She wondered how different fried zucchini would be from zucchini tempura. Quick deep frying, the principle was the same. The hamburgers looked very appealing. She picked out the cheddar and onion ring burger, also with fried zucchini. Mindful that Sherlock had a habit of stealing food right off her plate, she also ordered stuffed potato skins for all of them.

The food arrived, great heaping helpings of it. Joan and Wato were unsurprised. Joan because she was an American, and Wato because of the company she normally kept. Joan tucked in with gusto. John looked at his plate. “Good God, this is a serving platter!” He thought. But once the smell hit his nose, his stomach roared like a Formula One race car on the line. Challenge accepted. Wato sat back a little bit in her chair surveying her plate and the appetizer, because of Sherlock's legendary lack of ability to make up her mind, she routinely saw more food than she could possibly eat at once. But she'd be damned if she wasn't going to try this American Smorgasbord. 

Around a mouthful of refried beans (delicious!), John spoke to Joan, “If you don't mind my asking, what do you do?” His blue eyes showing genuine curiosity.

Joan swallowed a bit of brew, stout, it had the overtones of plum, and a hint of coffee, not bad, but she'd liked the Sunset Red better, “I'm a consulting detective these days.” 

John got an odd look on his face, “You sound like my flatmate, Sherlock.”

Wato nearly dropped her hamburger in surprise, and Joan looked at him very intently. “You know someone named 'Sherlock?' That is a wild coincidence. My housemate is also named Sherlock.” Wato chimed in, “Mine too, she has terrible manners. She forgets to remove her shoes in a home.”

John rolled his eyes, “You have no idea how awful Sherlock's manners are. He once showed up at Buckingham palace in a bed sheet.”

“Mine hardly ever says please or thank you.” Joan found herself saying.

The other two nodded as if they too, knew him.

“He barges into my room while I'm sleeping and wakes me up at all hours.” -Joan.

“He shot up the flat!” -John.

“She steals the food off my plate.” -Wato.

“S/he's very rude to the police.” -John and Wato.

“Mine's getting better about that.” -Joan.

“Sometimes I just want to take her/his mobile and throw it in the Hudson/Sumida/Thames.” - All three.

Joan said, “Wait, what do your Sherlocks look like? Mine is wiry, medium height, Caucasian, short haired, and originally from the UK.”

John answered, “He's tall, he's got dark wavy hair, has a voice like a it came out of a sepulcher, and, he's British, of course.” He wasn't sure why he added that last part, but there it was.

“She has short dark hair, and long bangs she puts to the side of her face, and always wears a long coat.”

“What's the surname? Mine's is Holmes.” -Joan

“Holmes,” said John, this was getting quite bizarre.

Together they stared at Wato, if she said “Holmes...”

“Fubata.” Wato replied, putting down the “Golden Sunset Wheat,” it was very much to her taste, tough the Mission Sunset wasn't bad. And she was very aware that this was all an incredible coincidence already, three Sherlocks? What were the odds?

John and Joan visibly relaxed. 

Then John realized he only knew their first names. “My last name's Watson. Yours?”

Joan's jaw dropped, “Mine too.”

Again they looked at Wato.

She blanked for a second, oh, right, the surname came last in English, “Tachibana.” She added, “But her brother likes to call me Wato-San.”

John set his beer down harder than he meant to, she had to be taking the piss. 

Joan snorted, Wato-San, sure, why not, and she shook her head, what started out as a quest for beer had taken a hard turn onto Ridiculous Avenue. Oh, what the hell, she embraced it with both arms. She blurted out, “Mine has a brother named Mycroft. I suppose his brother's name is Mycroft, too, and her brother's. At this point why wouldn't it be Mycroft? Mycrofts all around! You get a Mycroft, and you get a Mycroft, everyone gets a Mycroft!” 

John stared at her guardedly, no way had she imbibed enough to be drunk already. Slowly he said “Yes. Why?” “Mycroft” wasn't exactly a name an American would pull out of the aether. 

Joan was all in for the ridiculous, “He's a restaurateur? And a spy?” She was on a roll.

Relieved, John replied, “Ah, no. I'm not quite sure what he does exactly. Some kind of government thing.” he looked expectantly at Wato.

“No. His name is Kento. And all I know is that he's important.” She felt like she'd let Joan and John down after that baffling rant. Who names a child “Mycroft?” What a ghastly sounding name. A thought came to her, it couldn't be... She turned to John. “Are you a doctor?”

Both John and Joan in unison said, “Surgeon.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” -John.

“This is absurd.” -Joan.

“I am a surgeon, too.” said Wato, she lowered her eyes. “I was. Now I'm not sure what to do.”

John caught the pain in her face, and in Joan's. There were stories in their eyes, and, like his own, not happy ones. “What happened?” he asked gently.

Wato and Joan looked at each other, Joan spoke first. “I... I made a mistake that cost a man his life.” She wiped aside a tear, not here, damnit.

“I volunteered to go to Syria after a bombing. It was very hard.” She looked away, memories fresh and raw threatened to overwhelm her.

John cleared his throat, “I was in Afghanistan, an Army surgeon. I was wounded, and then medically retired. I run a modest surgery in London now.” He was lost in his own war memories for a moment. The constant intake of broken bodies, the terrible task of triage, the lack of supplies, the noise, the desperate friends/relatives/soldiers begging you to make the impossible happen and knowing that you couldn't (even when the spirit was willing, the flesh was often too far gone), the indescribable triumph of beating the impossible into submission (once in a great rare while) and crying joy for it. Never enough time, never enough supplies, never enough hands, never enough sleep, never enough, never enough, never enough...

He came back to the present, and found Wato staring at him as if she was reading his thoughts. Oh, sweet, merciful Christ, she was so fucking young. Had to be right out of medical school. Still, she knew, she understood, she lived it too, and she had damn near buckled under the weight of it or she wouldn't be adrift now. It occurred to John that Wato had very small shoulders. Too small to be asked to carry such a heavy, terrible burden, and yet, she had. Bloody hell, like him, she'd volunteered for it. Goddamn, it wasn't fair. Tears came to his eyes. He wiped them away quickly.

At the sound of John's voice, Wato looked at him, but his eyes only saw something far away. She watched a parade of emotions march across his face. It dawned on her that he must have been in some terrible places as a surgeon in a war zone, too. He looked far too kind to have had to witness such things. But there he sat, a fellow survivor who'd made it through, and still had the courage to practice medicine. She watched him wipe away tears. It was too much, something inside cracked wide open. She was still raw from the murder of her mentor practically as she'd put a foot on home soil after her flight from Syria, the suicide? murder at her hands? of her lover, and the ultimate betrayal of her good nature, and trust, by her physiological councilor. This stranger, this English man, felt like a rock in in an angry ocean, battered, yet still standing calm in the maelstrom. All of the frustration, the hard swallowed fear, the self directed fury, the grief, the regret, the guilt, the sadness, and the shame of giving up medicine boiled out of her. She started telling him what happened in Syria, and everything that happened to her since. She didn't realize she'd started crying.

John was startled by Wato's sudden torrent of tears and Japanese. But he didn't need to know her language to understand what she was telling him. “Terrible things happened to me. I'm lost, and I hurt. Help me.” He moved his chair right next to hers, and reached over and held her to him. He could feel a vertical scar, fresh from the feel of it, running down her back. So, she didn't escape without physical injuries in addition to her psychic trauma. He held her close, trying to will her pain away. He rocked her like a child, stroking her hair, and murmuring, “It's not your fault, you did everything you could.” over, and over in quiet sincere English, tears streaming down his face as well. His own dam crumbled and fell, finally, he was believing it for himself, too.

For a moment he locked eyes with Joan, and she realized he was talking to her, too. While she appreciated the kindness, she knew better, but this was not the time to say so. She watched over John and Wato instead. She'd seen this before, not in the middle of a restaurant on the West Coast, and not in gut wrenched sobbing Japanese, she knew catharsis when she saw it. She hoped they had therapists back in their respective countries to recount their stories to. In real life, catharsis wasn't a cure, no matter what the movies said. She took care of the check, found the bus driver, and explained that she and her two companions would be catching a Lyft back to the hotel. She also ordered a growler of the Sunset Red, and the wheat that Wato had seemed to prefer. As she watched John and Wato working through their shared pain in two languages she noticed people were starting to stare. “Let's go down to the beach, shall we?” She said gently.

It took Wato a few seconds to understand what Joan was saying, and in retrospect, what John was telling her. One day she hoped to believe that was true, that she had indeed done her best under impossible circumstances. She also recognized the professional quality of his touch on her back, without being intrusive, or sexual, he'd accessed her scar. Of course he did, what doctor wouldn't? She looked around, and died a little inside, people were staring. John was still holding her like his own child, and smiled at her. It was a worried father's tearful, reassuring smile and she took comfort in it. She was mortified that she'd reverted to her first language, and apologized to John and Joan. “It's okay. No need to apologize. I understand.” John said, and kissed Wato on the top of her head. He nodded to Joan, and mouthed “Thank you,” he'd seen what she'd done for them. He stood, and offered his hand to Wato. She took it. Joan said, “It's not uncommon to act in your first language when you're under stress. Don't worry about it.” She took Wato's other hand and gave it a squeeze. 

They left the restaurant, and walked across the boardwalk together. John and Joan flanked Wato, and the three of them spent the rest of the night sitting on the beach, watching the surf crash on the shore.

**Author's Note:**

> In Downtown San Diego there was a shopping mall called "Horton Plaza." At the time this story was written it was still an active shopping center. It's design was partly based on an idea of Ray Bradbury's. Yes, really, that Ray Bradbury.
> 
> As I write this note Horton Plaza mall is being torn down to become a tech hub. 
> 
> The Giant Dipper roller coaster is a well known San Diego landmark. To the best of my knowledge the Mission Sunset Brewery, and its restaurant are only figments of my imagination.


End file.
